It’s hard not to feel intimidated. After all, this is
the man who invented the stage dive, bare-chested
haloed father of punk rock, ecstatic, bloodied, wing-torn
Icarus, resurrected, strutting his tail feathers, embracing
the legend of the fall. Puts you in mind of your mother,
who, on her sixtieth birthday, skydived from a height
of ten thousand feet, the crack of her ankle breaking
heralded her triumphant descent, into the family hall of fame.
You wait until they’ve served dessert, a rich chocolate
ganache tart, garnished with the season’s first strawberries,
before turning to glance sideways at his face, its hush
of concentration, each spoonful manna from heaven lifted
reverently to his lips, rapt expression a cross between Tiny
Tim’s and Scrooge’s as they feasted on the ghost of second
chances and the promise of Christmas all year round. Swivelling
in your seat, you clear your throat; it’s now or never.
When will you again get the chance to crack the code
of how to live like tomorrow is a conspiracy
of the imagination? He puts down his spoon, like he’s got
all day, waits for you to form the words. If you don’t
mind me asking, your face reddening, how do you
do it; how do you live like you’re never going to die?
He gestures to your untouched plate: the scalloped
pastry’s golden crust, the heady marriage of chocolate
and cream, the curvaceous blush of summer fruit. A gift
from the gods, he says, beckoning; go on, dive in.
Anne Tannam is the author of four poetry collections, the latest of which, dismantle, was published by Salmon Poetry in 2024. She is poet in residence with Poetry Ireland (May 2023 to May 2025). www.annetannampoetry.ie
the man who invented the stage dive, bare-chested
haloed father of punk rock, ecstatic, bloodied, wing-torn
Icarus, resurrected, strutting his tail feathers, embracing
the legend of the fall. Puts you in mind of your mother,
who, on her sixtieth birthday, skydived from a height
of ten thousand feet, the crack of her ankle breaking
heralded her triumphant descent, into the family hall of fame.
You wait until they’ve served dessert, a rich chocolate
ganache tart, garnished with the season’s first strawberries,
before turning to glance sideways at his face, its hush
of concentration, each spoonful manna from heaven lifted
reverently to his lips, rapt expression a cross between Tiny
Tim’s and Scrooge’s as they feasted on the ghost of second
chances and the promise of Christmas all year round. Swivelling
in your seat, you clear your throat; it’s now or never.
When will you again get the chance to crack the code
of how to live like tomorrow is a conspiracy
of the imagination? He puts down his spoon, like he’s got
all day, waits for you to form the words. If you don’t
mind me asking, your face reddening, how do you
do it; how do you live like you’re never going to die?
He gestures to your untouched plate: the scalloped
pastry’s golden crust, the heady marriage of chocolate
and cream, the curvaceous blush of summer fruit. A gift
from the gods, he says, beckoning; go on, dive in.
Anne Tannam is the author of four poetry collections, the latest of which, dismantle, was published by Salmon Poetry in 2024. She is poet in residence with Poetry Ireland (May 2023 to May 2025). www.annetannampoetry.ie
